


HARD

by murakumounits



Category: No More Heroes (Video Games)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Clones, Gen, Minor Character Death, No Plot/Plotless, POV Second Person, Rated For Violence, senseless violence, the male gaze at work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23711176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakumounits/pseuds/murakumounits
Summary: "do I make you proud? it's so hot!"Your name is Mark, and you've having a normal day.
Relationships: Bad Girl/Bat
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	HARD

Your name is Mark and

Your name is Mark and

Your name is Mark and

Your name is Mark and your knees fucking hurt in this position, but it doesn’t matter because bare legs are sauntering towards you, ending in the thinnest of lace socks nestled in precariously high white heels. The blinders affixed to your face assure that you’re not able to look more than a few feet in front of you, let alone above you to owner of said legs. Not that it matters much; those above you do what they want to those chosen to be on the ground like you are, presently, too-green astroturf pressing against your sore knees as you hear the high whistle of a swinging bat and

Your name is Mark and there’s blood, so much blood painted on green artificial turf. Your mask slipped and you’re on a conveyer belt in a room filled with the stench of death, you’re one of two things moving in this room and that turf is coming to you faster than you can count; distracted by the green, you don’t notice the blur of pink heading your way, the soft rustling of astroturf under it’s heel, the manic giggling fit underneath the sound of the swing of the bat and

Your name is Mark and your head is comfortably nestled in a heavy hood, the smell of pleather and metal making everything hazy and warm, and you feel the sensation of moving forward, wind on your bare chest as you’re shuttled out into a room that feels damp, wet, dank with the heaviness of an underground lair. Before you can register that you’ve been positioned exactly upright on a swiftly moving conveyor belt, you feel your body tumble, bare feet failing to find purchase on false ground as you struggle to right yourself. Your arms are bound behind your back, fists rendered useless by the bolero-style straightjacket that houses your upper half, and in your quest to get up, you hear a bark of laughter echo through the room. Blind, unable to speak, brain buzzing with the newness of consciousness, balance is hard when you don’t know which way is up or what may lay in front of your face. The laughter continues, a siren’s throaty call of assured victory, and you feel the artificial turf make real burns on your exposed skin as your skin fruitlessly rubs against it.

“Aww, we’ve got ourselves a real player! Cute!” The laughter subsides, and a woman’s voice rings in your ears. She sounds like she’s a few paces away, and you hear rustling as she shifts her weight.

“Most of my dolls don’t move around as much as you do. Makes things awfully boring when they can’t fight back.” Her voice is closer, louder now, and you feel a sharp kick to your ribs. In a panic, you lay as flat on your back as you can, driven by the force of one stiletto-heeled shoe driving into your chest, it’s point blossoming into what you’re sure will be a very concentrated bruise.

Fuck, what you wouldn’t give to be able to see.

Her heel lets up, and you feel her weight disappear from above you, transferred instead to a hand pulling you forward into a sitting position, grasping the front of your hood where your nose would be. You feel the weight return, taking shape of frills and polyester against your chest, your exposed thighs straining under the sudden drop of her hips onto yours, and all of a sudden you’re too warm, too stifled as the stench of alcohol and blood overtake your senses. What was she going to do? You didn’t even know what she looked like and she already had the advantage over you. Your arms squirm, struggle to make purchase, hoping to loosen one of the buckles currently fastening your arms when, surprisingly, you feel her hands do it for you, easily slipping locking belts out of place; your limp arms regain blood flow, the heaviness of flesh feeling like it’s filled with the tactile sensation of white noise.

“You’re lucky, you know,” She breathes, and the aroma of cheap beer is heavy on her breath. “You don’t normally get to see me like this. But I guess I’m feeling a little… what’s the word?”

You shake your head, attempt to make a sound, but the words can't seem to escape your throat. Her hands undo the lacing on the back of your hood as you feel it’s stifling presence loosen, and in a few seconds, the blinding overhead lights overwhelm your vision as she rips the hood off of you with no ceremony, tossing the piece of pleather in a random direction and wrapping her arms around your shoulders. The stench of death (you know it to be death in your bones, what else could be this putrid), unfiltered now without the hood to act as a barrier, makes every hair on your body stand on end, and what could have looked like a lover’s embrace is instead, to you, a sick parody, a circus showing of false intimacy to serve as an appetizer before the gruesome main event.

“You gonna give me the answer, or what?” Her gloved hand snaps to your chin, and despite the slight slurring of her words, her eyes as she gazes into yours are steely, sharp, a primal hunter eyeing it’s prey. The girl in front of you absolutely reeks of bloodlust, and your mouth opens uselessly, unable to produce a single sound. Her mouth turns downwards in a frown before both hands are suddenly on your throat, and her weight returns as this girl that was straddling you only a moment ago now makes your head spin with only the power of her hands, her weight squarely on your neck, her frown getting larger before splitting into a maniacal grin.

“You can’t talk, can you? That’s your defect, huh?” She whispers, her voice low with a sharpness that shouldn’t have been possible given her inebriation; the increasing pounding in your head is getting more and more urgent as your field of vision narrows, focused only on those cold eyes evaluating the life absconding from your body. “That’s fine. I can work with that. You useless shits don’t ever have anything useful to say anyway. Don’t know if I prefer you with the hood on or off though…” Her knee goes up uncomfortably between your legs, and the sense of shame you feel at your current state washes over you. But before your vision blurs completely, she lets go, rises slowly from where you both lay on the ground; you’re treated to a glimpse of her bare legs as she makes her way over to the far end of the room. You don’t dare move- this is her show, you’re a set piece, you can’t do anything to escape as you see her right hand curl around a well-used wooden bat.

You know what comes next, and you can’t scream, can’t protest, can’t even move as you witness her saunter towards you, dragging her bat behind her. You only sit, stock still, body vibrating as you take in her form: disheveled and rank, desperate kinetic energy waiting for release. But, against your expectation, she crouches in front of you again, legs straddling her bat propped underneath her chin half a foot away from where you stare at her, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, looking at you like this, I think I prefer the hood on. But just for shits and giggles, let’s see what happens when it’s not!”

And before you can register what’s happening, she’s up and swinging the bat and

Your name is Mark, and the sound of bloodspatter roughly twenty feet away is the first thing you hear.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you gotta just write something quick and self indulgent to get it out. thanks for reading!
> 
> get @ me on twitter | https://twitter.com/murakumounits


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